The Battle of Rossagoale
Source: The Stone Fiddle by Paddy Tunney
Location: New Edition, page 84 / 85 (Poem)
In Rossagoale the trumpet blast
Of winter, roaring through the pines
Began the war; the trees held fast,
Their strength entrenched in endless line.
And though the winter’s frosty fangs
Gnawed hard to nip their life away,
The trees withstood the piercing pangs
And side by side withstood the fray.
Then springtide came with flowery feet,
And winter hastened on the march.
But low! the trees hemmed his retreat,
With spear of spruce and lance of larch.
Destroyer ducklings, row on row,
Are feasting in the oats and wheat.
But harking to the pheasant’s crow,
Rush out to join the Erne fleet.
Above the water, like a spear,
A perch’s coming fin is seen.
But warship swans a-cruising near
Hail him, their friendly submarine.
In Rossagoale the axes ring
And lordly trees in battle fall.
Down by the lake the waters fling
Around the shivering shore a shawl.
The sawmill sings a wicked song,
A song of sin and blood and death,
And trees that stood the storm for long
Shriek vengeance in their dying breath.
And back behind the buzzing saw,
The lifeless trees rise stack on stack.
The vicious teeth that nip and gnaw
Through woody sinews never slack.
Around the road that runs the shore
The lumbering lorries ever roll.
Their timber-laden engines roar,
“Defeat and death to Rossagoale!”